Constant
by Stephane Richer
Summary: they're scarred from battles and weary of the sea, of the rocking of boats and the slosh of the waves and the smell of salt in the air


Constant

Disclaimer: don't own.

Note: this is my first attempt at buggy/shanks so pleas call me out if anything seems off to you; thanks!

* * *

The first time they're still boys, really; they're young and on the bottom rungs of the crew, alone in the tiny cabin they share for once when neither of them is on duty or call for anything. Shanks has been bothering Buggy all day, pulling on his shirt and talking to him when they're on lookout and Buggy almost drops a spyglass into the sea but he grabs it with a detached hand right before it falls and risks the spray touching it and Shanks is completely unsympathetic and unapologetic and it only gets worse from there and by now even though he really should be catching some much-needed sleep he slams Shanks against the wall and he's about to punch him through when Shanks leans forward and kisses him.

Shanks's lips are warm and wet and messy but Buggy kisses back; he tastes kind of spicy and their noses are touching but the pressure is nice and Shanks never says anything about his nose anyway, never has; he's kissing Buggy's face, cheeks and forehead and jawline, and Buggy is making all sorts of whines and responding enthusiastically to Shanks tugging at his shirt when suddenly he feels like he's had cold water poured over his head and his temperature's fluctuating and he can't move even though he wants to, is trying to send impulses to his muscles but they're not responding and he's about to sink to the bottom and drown because he can't breathe; he's barely cognizant enough to give a half-splutter after Shanks's lips leave his again.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing, anyway?"

"Hmm?" Shanks pauses.

"You're assaulting me! Taking advantage!"

"Seemed like you were enjoying it to me," says Shanks.

"Well—" Buggy splutters again.

Maybe he had kind of maybe enjoyed it a little bit, but that doesn't change the fact that Shanks didn't give him time to react and choose for himself, anyway. And maybe he would have chosen this but that's not the point at all.

"Well, since we've started we might as well go on," Buggy grumbles, detaching his hands and grabbing Shanks with them.

Shanks pries his fingers off of him and pushes him down to the floor. The hat is lopsided on his head and his red hair pools around his shoulders; he needs to cut it but it's strangely beautiful in the bit of starlight filtering in from the porthole and Buggy is transfixed and Shanks is tugging at his clothes and kissing his neck and at least he's shut up by now. Buggy kisses back hungrily and he has no idea where the fuck they're going or how to get there but he's damned if he's going to let Shanks take the lead.

* * *

The next time is many years after that, years after fighting together and after Loguetown and after the offer and after what they at the time thought was everything; Buggy and his crew are in the same port where Shanks and his crew are and they get to talking again and Shanks doesn't bring up the past so neither does Buggy; their crew members eye each other warily and Richie almost steals one of Shanks's men's food and it takes three men to rein him in but that piques their interest and they order too much ale but the only one who gets wasted is Buggy, as usual; he's sloshed and red-face and it's visible underneath all of his makeup and Shanks is patting him on the back and that turns to tugging at Buggy's belt and running his hands up and down Buggy's torso and where does he think he is, anyway? The rest of both crews are tired and they'll be up drinking and arguing until dawn so Buggy yanks Shanks out of his seat and drags him out of the door and toward his ship, anchored in the harbor. They stumble through a trapdoor but it's one of the more comfortable compartments so Buggy locks it from the inside and they go at it in the cramped space, clothes still half-on as they explore each other's bodies; Shanks has new scars and his hair is a touch thinner and greasier; Buggy's hair is longer and his makeup is much different and stains Shanks's face and clothes but Shanks just kisses him harder; his mouth is more raw and his tongue is more precise and his hands wander freer but Buggy somehow lets them.

In the morning Shanks is gone and the crew staggers back; they don't question where Buggy was or who he was with (as they damn well shouldn't; Buggy's the boss and it's his own damn business and none of theirs).

* * *

It's only a few years before the next time although it feels like an eternity; they see each other often but only in passing. Shanks loses an arm and that stupid hat and Buggy paints more and more of his face but even as they change the attraction is still palpable in a way that scares and intrigues Buggy; every time they're this close to jumping each other until the damn bursts.

He blows Shanks in the back room of an inn and pops his eyes out so he can see Shanks's face, the sharp shadows in the flickering lantern-light and the way his eyes flutter and roll back and how his lips slacken and part to let out sounds that even at a whispered volume reach Buggy's ears.

Buggy turns to leave afterward and Shanks grabs him, kisses his nose—is he making fun of it? It's hard to say what strange things are going through his mind at this point, and Buggy's not sure he wants to know.

* * *

The years have not been kind to either of them; they're scarred from battles and weary of the sea, of the rocking of boats and the slosh of the waves and the smell of salt in the air. Prison might have been a welcome break if Buggy not had to deal with all the shit that went down, and even then it was something else, but it had still brought him back to the ship with more crew members to feed (at least these guys seem mostly capable other than the whole caught-by-the-government thing) and here he is again but at least Shanks provides a briefer, better respite.

Here in the cabin they can go undisturbed for a time; Buggy can trace the outlines of the raised scars on Shanks's chest and feel the way his hips have sunk in and his muscles have become more wiry, can explore Shanks's side under where his arm used to be. Shanks's fingers curl awkwardly in Buggy's hair and he brushes against bruises with his elbow; Buggy hisses into his mouth but neither of them speaks—these times are hard to come by; it's better off to leave the words for later. They have learned that much in their time apart, although they both tend to forget it often. They are different men from the last time they met; they are different from the time before that and each time stretching back to the first time; they have new scars and new motives and new wants—except for each other. That much is constant.


End file.
